


(I'll Still Be) Where I Started...

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Era Queen (Band), Album: Sheer Heart Attack, Anxiety, Band Fic, Best Friends, Bickering, Brian is also confused, Brian is stubborn, Cats, Comfort, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Dreamscapes, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Early studio work, Epic Friendship, F/M, Freddie is (sort of) pining, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Heart-to-Heart, Hiding Medical Issues, Hugs, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Injury Recovery, Insomnia, John takes care of Brian, Loyalty, Medical Conditions, Miami Beach is Band Dad, Mother Hen Freddie Mercury, No toxic masculinity to be found here, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Phone Calls & Telephones, Platonic Kissing, Protective Freddie Mercury, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), References to Depression, Roger Taylor (Queen) Being an Idiot, Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Roger is super pretty guys, Roger takes care of his dearest Freddie, Roger's a clever one, Sassy John, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Sort of Self-Indulgent, Studio work, Swearing, Sweet John, Tenderness, This has gotten somewhat sad, Vomiting, What-If, Worry, flatmates, i am confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: It's after all that has happened - illness, uncertainty, hospitalisation horror. After, and yet. And still. Brian doesn't know what to make of this.~ And honestly, nor do I(A dream and its aftermath during studio work mid- 1974. Set during the recording ofSheer Heart Attack)
Relationships: Brian May & Freddie Mercury, Brian May & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Jim Beach & Brian May, John Deacon & Brian May, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 60
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

The sun is up, blinding and glaring off of a seemingly-endless expanse of water. There is water before him, below him; he's standing upon something solid above the rushing liquid. Hears a sound like that on the beach at Cornwall when he'd gone the once, some years ago. Feels the salt of spray, or imagines it. Yet somehow he also feels as though this is wrong, that the sky should be grey and cloudy. He definitely should not be on the sea. 

He blinks, lifting one arm a moment to shade his eyes from light shining now on his hands. Brown hands, skin cracked and sinewy with hard use. Somehow he thinks they ought to be different, they should be pale white and long and bony, spidery. Not tough from work. He has seen another pair of hands more like these, but they're stocky and calloused and hold a cigarette, or a pair of sticks.... 

He sees his hands on a wheel, for a...ship, he thinks, though he ought to be holding an axe. A guitar, red. He feels the surety with a sharp burst of clarity, and then his mind clouds with confusion. He's heading... somewhere on the ocean, sailing across the sea. On a big ship, downright enormous. A steamer. He knows that, can tell, now - the word comes to him somehow; from sighting billows of smoke, hearing the chugging sound of the engines, perhaps. There's something electrical, and someone he knows would know far more about this. He can only hope that whatever ash is being potentially sent into the atmosphere from the ship's boilers won't harm any sea life.

But he's sailing, somehow, somewhere. Sailing across the sea, and the wind blows, first soft and then more fiercely, and then the ocean, a deep blue-black miasma sprays in salt and swoops as a passel of other ships, like a fleet, gather before him and around him. Voices float to reach his ears. He realises he is wearing a cap, snug over his hair. Is it curly, long? Somehow he doesn't think long curling locks are regulation for a captain, if he is, in fact, a captain. He should be a queen, the thought comes unbidden; he is royalty, darling. Or someone else is, someone he loves with mobile features and effortless charm and dark flashing eyes....

Suddenly there is a roaring screeching sound and all the ships tear hellbent for leather on the sea, and he hears splashing and screams, and there are _people_ in the ocean around him, the ship in front suddenly disappears as if tugged inexorably by some rogue wave, and he is frozen in place, his throat dry, muscles straining - wants to whip round and shout for someone to save them, all of the people he sees, or to call 'man overboard!' or something of the like.

He should get an order, or have one to give, surely - his heartbeat thunders, his lips feel dry... but all he hears past the roaring of the sea and shouting, screaming sailors is a voice more angry than all of them. Calling out a name. His name.

_BRIAN._

He shakes his head to clear it. Surely he must do something, make an order - but his lips don't move. It's as if they refuse to obey his mind's command. 

Which is unheard of. Unthinkable. He knows, he knows this situation should not be possible. His mind has always obeyed him, has always been his own. 

_BRIAN, WAKE THE FUCK UP, MATE! WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE TO BLOODY STUDIO!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a confusing story, but it's based almost wholly upon a dream I had where (I think) I was a steamship captain who was on some sort of wartime mission. What war, whether I saved anyone, what the actual mission was, I have not a single solitary clue. 
> 
> But I thought about Brian and the dream he said that he had which begot 'The Prophet's Song', and so thought I'd try to parse out my dream by giving him one like it. 
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

Eyes opening blearily to a flat sort of light and hazy pale shapes, turning his long body over with a deep groan, Brian puts his fingers - miraculously pale and slim, no longer cracking and nut-brown - to his face. His guitar leans in the corner, the sight of which his eyes catch on. But the only thought in his blurry head is whether or not the people who'd fallen overboard could have been saved. Nearly takes it upon himself to turn back over and try to fall asleep again, as ridiculous and illogical as that notion would be, when the door of his bedroom flies open. 

Bright as the sun itself bursting into the room and crashing into, leaping on the bed, golden hair and warm skin shining beside the monochrome of a toggled onyx shirt with ivory-hued flowers and berries on. Silvery loops of neck chains sparkle atop the smooth skin of a torso that is far closer to the golden hue that Brian's was in his dream. A calloused hand pushes through Brian's black curls roughly as the same voice that had woken him says "Get your lanky arse in gear, we've got to go!" Brian's hazel eyes remain a bit unfocused, which makes the newcomer gentle the stroking of his mate's curls a mite. "Jesus, Bri, you look like shit," he says. "You alright?" 

Brian blinks and breathes, the pressure of corded calloused hands waking him a little more, taking the sharpness of fear and the fuzziness of unconsciousness out of his eyes yet doing naught for his confusion. His mind is pinwheeling, trying to puzzle out that dream, why he would be a ship's captain on the ocean, witness to people drowning, to a ship founder and fall, it makes no _sense -_

He barks out a laugh that sounds strained even to his own ears, replying softly "Yeah, Rogie. Let's - I'm ready to go, just a moment," and swings his legs out of bed, resting on the floor as he sits up and covers his face with another groan. Roger's eyes narrow.

Ordinarily the drummer would tug on Brian, drag him up and maybe even chuck some clothes his way, urging "Let's go let's go, Deaks is already on Freddie for always being late, you know that" but something makes him pause in this moment.

Something that is Brian, how slow he's moving, the look in his eyes. It's as if something has rattled him deeply, and though Roger Taylor is often ready with a light-hearted jibe at his friend's moodiness, has been since they met in order to get Bri out of his head - he's always bloody thinking, sometimes too damn much - this time as he studies Brian's face best he can, having not yet put his prescription sunglasses on and thus having to consider what are the blurs of curls and skin because of his vision and how much of Brian's face is crinkled up with whatever is his present concern... Something is off, is wrong.

So Roger shakes back his hair, sighs, and flops his bum onto the bed, bouncing a bit on its incredibly shrieky mattress as he nudges Brian with a sharp elbow. "Budge over," he says, and as Brian does, the stockier turns, folding his legs and facing his tall friend.

Clear blue eyes rove across Brian's long features, taking in the wrinkle between his brows and the leanness of his cheeks, shadowed with the barest hint of black stubble. His hazel eyes are slightly clouded still, and the drummer reaches up to gently pat Brian's face. He's seen his friend like this a couple of times, usually when his thoughts have gotten dark and Brian needs help to get moving again. He needs help to do it even if he doesn't or won't ask, which frustrates the blond to no end. It's been years they've known each other, he _knows_ when something's going on. Even when Bri doesn't say anything. He hasn't got to say anything. Figures he ought to remind Brian of that, the stubborn bastard. 

"Honestly, Bri. This is me," he licks his lips and focuses. "And we've really got to go, but. If there's something wrong you can tell me." _You really ought to tell me, I'm here to fucking help you. You know that, yeah?_ He could say all of those things, but if he doesn't say then he DOESN'T know, and if Bri's in a tough state, Roger getting irritated is only going to upset him and the drummer doesn't want to cause or deal with any weeping this morning. Thus he huffs out air and with one expressive eyebrow rising, simply inquires, steady on, "What's going on with you, mate?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger acts like an idiot at times but he's sharp as a tack, especially when it comes to Brian. He's always there for his friend :)
> 
> What's Bri going to say? Who knows?
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

"...Rog," Brian swallows, feeling a prickling at the corners of his eyes. Roger is such a good friend, intuitive. And stubborn, as Bri is fully aware that he isn't going to let Brian not say anything, even if Bri doesn't know what to say, which he iterates. "I, I dunno what... I had a - had this dream, and" he inhales, nostrils flaring as he blinks and waves his hands. "I was sailing across the sea, as a... captain, I think."

Roger snorts. "Really, Brian? You?"

"Yes!" Brian snaps. "Er, well I think it was me, there was a difference in me hands..." As Roger cocks his face, Brian shakes his head. "Never mind. Point is, I was in charge of this entire ship, I think, and then there was a, a fight or something that caused a bunch of sailors, people to fall into the sea. They were _drowning_ , Roger, and I was - I should've been able to rescue them, but I couldn't, I couldn't even SPEAK, and I - what does that say about me, Rog, that -" His eyes get huge as his words tumble all over each other.

"Brian. Brian, it was a dream, mate." Roger has automatically shifted closer to him. He puts his hands on Brian's arms and clutches both of them. "Christ, you're shaking." Pulling Brian to him, Roger wraps his warm arms tightly around the other man's slim torso and holds on. "C'mon, you're alright. Just breathe."

Brian has tucked his chin against the front of Roger's shoulder and tries to stop his shoulders from shaking, jerking with every breath. It's too much, this all is. He wants the band to do well and get big, but they're trying and trying and "It's, you're stressed, clearly," Roger says, high tone as gentle as the circles he rubs on Brian's back. Brian expels a single sob of gratitude for Roger's quick mind, the fact he had grasped onto Brian's stress level. "You're stressed as fuck, but really, you'd have been able to rescue those people with your swimming talents no problem," the drummer says, giving the guitarist a slight prod. "Such as your absolutely mad diving skills." He chuckles, and Brian feels the shakes reverberating through Roger's body, calming him as well as soothing, lessening his own. Always grounded, Roger is, and able to make things light. Brian nestles closer to his friend in thankfulness.

They stay like that, Brian's arms eventually rising and curling around Roger's back, hands flattening as his fingers extend across the other's shoulder blades, grasping the slick cloth of Roger's shirt. A sharp thump on the bedroom door precedes scratching and mews. Then a springing thud and kneading paws against the lower back of the drummer make his body bow into Brian's. 

"Oh for fuck's sake, hello," Roger lifts one arm and wraps it around a furry form, scooping the little creature to his chest between himself and Brian. "'M doing alright, here, maybe y' can help Brian," he shoves the furry face of one of Fred's cats into Brian's, and a paw swipes at Bri's curls, preceding a meow and a rolling of the feline's neck as she stretches and rubs her face against Brian's jawline.

Bri makes a soft pleased sound and coos "hullo, sweetheart," stroking the animal's back and wrapping his arm around her. Not even minding Roger's initial cheeky grin as he'd shoved her at Brian. The drummer wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out, waggling it a bit. Bri shakes his head with a little chuckle and a mumble that Roger is ridiculous.

"And you looove it," Roger singsongs, voice going into his falsetto.

Brian rolls his eyes, stroking the cat under the chin gently. He looks at his best mate from under fuzzy midnight fringe and his eyes crinkle with a smile, the aftereffects of his dream dissipating a little. Nothing like the shared ministrations of a cat and a friend. A friend who does know what is going on with Brian. He really ought to give Roger more credit for that knowledge.

After a second there is the slamming of a door and a sonorous voice calling out "All right, I'm about tired of being the biggest twat in the band when it comes to being late, so will the two of you girls _please_ hurry it up?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian's absolutely mad diving skills is a reference to the fantastic swan dive he performed in the extended 'One Vision' music video
> 
> The other boys will appear next chapter, which I think will be the last
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present and the past
> 
> Discussion of past injuries and medical scares

"Sod off, Fred!" Roger leans back on the bed, grinning expansively at Brian as the other man keeps cuddling the cat. He licks his lips before crowing in his exuberant style, still using his falsetto which astounds Brian, even as many times as he's heard Rog do it, that his friend can just haul in air and sing _that high_ "it's late, it's late, it's late, but not too late!"

Another voice, deadpan but with an edge, retorts "If you're so sure about that, Roger, I suggest you be the one to tell Roy about it." 

"I will!" Roger declares loudly, heated. "I'll tell him I was taking care of Brian."

"... what's wrong with our Brian?" Whilst demanding that, Freddie pokes his dark head through the door whilst John, mouth working, shoves it open from behind the singer. Brian's lips twist in shame for his behaviour due to nothing more than a simple dream. It's so ridiculous, he knows they've got to work and he's being needy and useless and -

He hears Roger saying something, perhaps what passes for an explanation which, knowing Roger, is something along the lines of _'Brian's wigging out, alright?'_ but whatever he says, there is sudden movement and Freddie's ever-warm arms have wrapped around him as he cuddles as close as the cat. "Oh, my darling," his voice is soft and sweet as he presses his lips afterwards to Brian's shirt covered shoulder. "Why didn't you tell us how worried you are? How stressed, about this, being in studio again?"

"I was -" Brian gulps heavily as he flicks his eyes from sweet Freddie to Rog sitting stolid across from him, nodding in silent encouragement for once in his life. John stands beside the bed, hesitant, his eyes narrowed as he listens. Concern and irritation both are present on his expressive face, which makes Brian feel a trifle ill. He does his best to explain by first apologising. "I'm so sorry, I should've told you, but I didn't want to be a bother." He hears a noise from Fred and feels his arm grasped tightly by Roger. His eyes grow wet and he blinks rapidly, lump rising into his throat. But the deep rumbling purr of the cat snuggled against his chest keeps him speaking. That and the fact that the boys are all here listening to him. He owes them an explanation. At this point they are not just bandmates, they're his friends. 

"I know, I... We've all wanted this, we've worked so hard for _years_ to get where we are, to have a manager and a record deal and I just - I don't want to let you down. Not again, not after -" he doesn't speak, only shifting his hand to cover the scar on his arm, the last remnants of the horrible time that had plagued him, plagued all of them earlier this year. A deep dull pain in his abdomen reminding ferociously of his liver mid-shutdown, and the dizzy half-awake feeling of the hospital where he stayed so long. Roger's face has frozen, a look almost like fury settles on his soft features, but Brian catches the agony in his eyes, the flashing recollection of how awful that entire experience was. Thus he knows that the drummer understands, or at the very least registers Brian's meaning.

All-too-well, really; Roger had known the most about what was happening to his best friend when Brian was in hospital, and that still had not been enough certainty for him. For any of them.

Brian starts shaking again, and the cat wriggles away from him, leaving him bereft. He hunches forward and closes his eyes, bending his body and clenching his fists, curling into himself. "I'm sorry," he chokes. "I want to get this right, and I didn't - I don't want you lot to be worrying about me - to feel as though you've got to, again."

"Brian." There is movement and softness in an embrace around his side and back. Another grip wraps around his opposite side, and a hand hesitates before patting and then holding onto the back of his head. He peeks and sees warmth in John's green-grey eyes as the bassist says "We want to help you, mate."

"Of course we'll be worried, but we're here to help! We always are, always will be, darling." 

A sharp "And you're allowed to ask for help and take a fucking second, we can do that if you tell us about it, mate" baldly spoken by Roger as his arms cinch even more tightly around Bri precedes the murmurs of assent from John and Freddie; lips of the lead singer pressing to his guitarist's cheek as the bassist strokes his hair.

And then a "Come on, Brian, we'll all help you right now. Let's go, lads" aligns with a gathering of clothes, the search for one clog "Where'd it go after last night, Roger?"

"How the fuck should I know, maybe you should ask the cats!" 

Brian stops shaking for good as they all converge with a will, no longer angry about being late to studio - John even offers to call Roy himself, a feat of suggestion astounding, as he isn't typically one to offer conversation freely outside of the circle of those he loves. "But this has to be done," he speaks stoutly, and no one disagrees with him.

Brian feels warm and safe and fully awake as he gets into clothes and Freddie holds onto him, Rog pouring a cup of coffee before giving Bri a bracing pat on the back and then a final tight hug. Brian finally discovers his shoes and locks his old girl into her case to sling upon his shoulder. John gets the okay for the four of them to get to studio within the hour, and Freddie argues with Roger over whether they have enough coin to buy actual breakfast, or at least something "you spent the lot on that chintz armchair Fred"

"I told you it was a steal!"

"But did you actually steal it, because if not you paid too much and we've nothing here except bread and beans"

"Dear Deacy could make one of his cheese toasties,"

"Don't make John do this, I'll be alright, really." 

"Sod it, you don't eat enough anyway, Brian!" 

"...then it isn't a - it's not necessary." 

"I really don't mind toasting one for you, Brian," John offers quietly.

"See, Bri, you can have things for breakfast or whatever!"

"I don't want -"

"For fuck's sake if you even ATTEMPT to say that you don't want to be a bother, mate," Roger glowers at him, eyes like ice.

"Have you already forgotten what we just got through saying to you, Brimi darling?" 

"I - no," Brian ducks his head, cheeks flushing at the kindness. "It's just... you're all so good to me." _Too good. I know I don't deserve it, when I've been such a bother already...._ He may not speak the last aloud, but they all three can figure it, and move as one to envelop him in a (this time standing) hug. 

"Only as good as you deserve, my dearest." Freddie smiles, lips curling off of his teeth as he strokes Brian's face. There are sounds and movements of agreement. 

"As good as you treat us - and people around you all the time - you deserve everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian suffered from gangrene and hepatitis in 1974, forcing Queen to cut short a tour where they were second to Mott the Hoople and were joined by Kansas
> 
> I think his troubles with self worth might have been exacerbated by that. It was such a frightening time for all of them :'( Bri apparently worried they'd want a new guitarist in the band. He isn't saying it directly as of yet, but seems like it'd make sense at this time for him to have a stress dream.
> 
> Please let me know if you'd like to see more of this story, such as Brian actually admitting what he's worried about. Comments appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way to work
> 
> Brief discussion of past and present medical issues below, some slightly graphic description of pain

Luckily they will be at Trident today, Brian thinks as he is dragged out of the flat and they start heading down the road a mite. Means they won't be needing to pack up and drive all the way across London or god forbid into the countryside. Roger shoves himself into the nearest bakery soon as he spots it, John going after him to help - or rather keep Rog from purchasing every eclair in the place. Soon as he sees pastry crusts he's a goner, or he knows about Freddie's incredible sweet tooth, more like, as well as the fact that Brian is into almonds. 

Brian himself is standing outside hunched a bit in the air as Freddie stands beside him. He thinks about how kind Fred is, how they all have been so supportive of him, when he honestly feels as though he's still on that raging ocean in his dream. He's prepared to be thrown off the ship or to save the people, except he couldn't, he hadn't even been able to speak - as he hadn't spoken up about being sick, hadn't been able to work through it -

Brian swallows hard, reaching up with one hand to curl his fingers and press the heel of his hand against his chest as a burst of pain flares sharp within. His movements make his guitar swing against his back, thudding against his shoulders and Freddie notices the harsh gasp of breath from his dear friend. His hand reaches for and tightens around Brian's. "Hendrix, love, are you alright?" With corded strength residual from his erstwhile boxing days, the singer tugs his guitarist to one side of the walk to lean with him against a wall, resting his broad shoulder underneath Brian's to take his weight.

Brian gasps. _Hendrix._ Tim saying that, as he had during the Smile days, first with a fond rolling of his eyes and then later cold and colder - anyone else saying it, as the incredible guitarist is Brian's idol, he would take it as a joke at his expense. _'Brimi Hendrix, yeah, right'_ but Freddie always said it with such awe and affection. The very first time they'd contemplated being a band, after Smile had disentigrated and after months of mucking about, Fred had asked Brian and Roger to work with him. Or rather, told them. The words he had said to Brian are ones that still ring in the guitarist's skull now: "You are my Hendrix, and we will do this thing". He'd spoken then with such conviction. 

Brian wonders now with an aching feeling - alongside the pain in his chest that seems to travel into his abdomen, making him feel faint and nauseated - if it's still true. How can those words, those feelings be true anymore, after he couldn't keep going on their American tour? Practically first one, so they were second fiddle, but surely they'd get higher on, they were selling out shows and people had been loving them! Yet Brian had been the one to collapse backstage, to take Freddie out of the limelight, which he lives in so well, that universal space for them. Brian thought it had been theirs until he cocked it up, was always tired and run down and in pain, felt like rusty knives were dragging across his innards, raking through and turning them to mulch; he shudders, almost retches, and feels Freddie's arms around him, holding him. Hears tyres rushing on wet asphalt and cobbles and hears the cacaphony of crowds - ah, yes, they're in London. Brian's long hand clutches Freddie's and he swallows, sniffs and nods.

"Yes, Fred," hopefully his voice is not as much of a croak aloud as it sounds in Brian's head. He fumbles with his fingers to catch hold of, lace them with Freddie's, to take and hold his hand as tight as possible. Grounding himself with his sweet singer, his soul brother by his side. Hazel eyes look into brown ones as Brian speaks truth "...I am, when I'm with you."

Freddie beams at him, a slight flush coming to his skin as he smiles with his teeth, not hiding them from Brian, which is a joy. He squeezes Brian's hand and says "I'm glad. You looked a bit puny for a moment. We'd best get - oh, good! Liz, do give our Bri some chocolate," his face lights up as the warm scent of buttery pastry wafts over to them, and Roger's bright head is there with croissants he is thrusting at Brian, John trying to keep hold of the packet they're in and hand over a napkin whilst the drummer moves about like a whirlwind.

Telling Bri to "eat up, y' pillock, we've got to move, I spent our taxi fare on pastry!" Which makes Brian's fingertips tremble and a lump comes to his throat again, he chokes out that he's sorry, they oughtn't have to do this for him, not when he doesn't even know if he can eat it - but Roger shouts him down with a shaking head and a snarl to "shut the fuck up and eat your breakfast" adding that they'll "...be bringing some pastries to the producing lads too, that way Sheffield can't be a tit about it" smirking with satisfaction as if that was his entire goal. It's only incidental that he's also doing so much for Brian.

John nearly collapses into giggles at Roger entering the studio with aplomb, kicking out his feet and crowing over the divine delicious pastry they had procured, Freddie making the announcement of their entrance in bombastic frontman style.

Roy's lips twitch as he ushers them into the recording room before they incur the vocalisation of ire from their manager or his brother, nodding for them to put the croissant boxes down and leave 'em out. Brian doubles over to set down the box of food and softly offers what's left of it, trying to ignore the twinging that manifests in his torso again. He stands and settles his shoulders, taking his guitar out and readying her for work. Even as his heart hammers madly and he feels as if he might be sick, he is happy to be here to play. 

Pressing his lips together and plugging in after ducking through the door unobtrusive as he can, Brian breathes and prepares. One, two. One two three - 

Screwing his eyes tightly shut and his courage to the sticking place, the guitarist bows his head and plays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tim is Tim Staffell, who was in two bands with Brian before Bri became part of Queen. By all accounts I've read, he's the first person to have used the nickname of "Brimi"
> 
> *Brian idolises Jimi Hendrix, and I've learned that Freddie said the words that Brian was his Hendrix and they would do this thing, i.e. be in an amazing band and make it big  
> *Freddie was a boxer growing up, which is noticable in some of his precise arm, hand, and feet movements onstage
> 
> *The album Sheer Heart Attack was recorded in four separate studios, whew! Lotta moving round!
> 
> *Brian's chest and abdominal pain, as well as his nausea, are allusions to a medical issue he suffered during this time. Poor man :'(
> 
> Hope you're enjoying, comments appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

Usually Brian can relax when his head goes before his hands. When he listens to a piece of music and knows what sorts of notes and chord progressions it needs, just like that, as if the notes are floating through the air and he can hear them, pluck and see a line of stitching, as it were, that he can then create around Roger's backbeat and John's thumping bass whilst Freddie's voice croons and overlaps it all.

But not today. Today, his fingers fumble. Today the notes are high and shrill, they shriek strangely as if Brian had chosen to play a half tick upward. Brian shakes his head, thinking his amp isn't configured right, or perhaps his headphones are muffling the notes too much.

He sees Roger's eyes get large and watches the drummer flip his drumstick, pause, nodding at Freddie and John. "Oi, let's come in again," his high tone is a trifle rough, but he hasn't started smoking yet - after smoking for hours is when his voice gets rough; that, as well as whenever he is recording and re-recording backing vocals over and over again. 

Currently Roger is rolling his lips and bobbing his head, spikes of hair flying as he puts out both arms and works the hi-hats. "C'mon, Brian, get on!" His voice is covered up enough by the crashing percussion that the mics don't catch it, but Brian does. He swings his shoulders and comes in, but it's with an extended screeching shrieking note, as though his guitar is in pain, or rather, that she's expressing something of his own pain - 

Brian's breath heaves, his fingers falter and stop. Roger whips his head to the side as Bri opens his mouth in a gasp, eyes wide, veneer of sweat making the skin on his face and chest glow. He clenches one fist and swallows hard, pounding one thigh. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," his lips barely move, but the words are enough. Enough to tell them something is off. 

John and Roger share a wide-eyed glance. 

The guitarist never says he's sorry in studio; has not previously, anyhow. He is so sure of his ideas and his work. Music is the constant, the single thing he is always sure on. He knows this, and loves it. He knows how to make a song work, and where to place a solo, where to incorporate riffs and fills and rhythm. It's as if the chords are part of him; music has been part of Brian since he carved the bits of bedposts to make his own guitar. This is different. Something is going on here. 

Freddie makes a whirling motion telling Roy to "cut, cut off the tape, please" and he puts his microphone back on its stand, lips trembling. Looks over at Brian with those sharp eyes, ever warm and deep and mesmerising. He calculates music so differently from Brian, does Fred. They have such disparate tastes and processes. Yet Freddie is always receptive and open; if something is wrong or if it's right. He will say that. And so Brian is unsurprised, even as his chest clenches when Freddie says "That was no good at all." But being sweet Freddie, he immediately asks "Are you all right, my love?" 

Brian's closer eye flashes under his hair and his curls are shaking as he presses his lips together. He should be okay, he should, what's wrong with him? "...Yes," he draws air all the way into his body, lifting his face, holding the breath as his chest ceases twinging. Jerks his chin and gestures with a hand, tightening one guitar string. "I've got it, let's go ahead." 

"You sure, Bri?" Roger calls up from behind the drums. "Need us to bring it up?" He asks cheekily. Brian huffs.

"No, I'll get it," he returns. _Should have already gotten it!_ Berating himself he thinks thus, and catches John's eyes across the room as the bassist silently watches him. Not saying a thing, but when Bri looks at John, he's nodding, crinkles forming at the outermost corners of his eyes. His own form of encouragement as he settles and bounces once. 

Resituating his studio headphones and hissing a little as the muff catches a few of his curls. Brian pushes them back roughly. Right. He looks from John to Roger and to Freddie again. "Let's go, then."

Brian brings the guitar back in, hears screeching again. So do the others, and the guitarist swiftly toggles the pickup and tone controls, checking on the sound that way. 

He's got to get this right. Has to get this done.

Rock and roll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated <3


	7. Chapter 7

He's getting it right. He's going to get it right.

At least he can snap his fingers on cue.

Brian puts both hands next to his mic as Freddie does as well, and eyes holding Fred's across the space, he waits and watches as his singer mouths "One two three four -" _Snap snap snap snap_ their fingers move in unison, and Brian's heart lifts. It does so even more as Freddie smiles at him before curling one hand around his microphone to begin crooning 

_"She keeps her moet et chandon in her pretty cabinet. 'Let them eat cake,' she says, just like Marie Antoinette - built-in remedy for Khruschev and Kennedy and anytime an invitation you can't decliiiiine,_

_Caviar and cigarettes, well-versed in etiquette, extraordinarily nice, she's -"_

Roger has tapped the edge of his set, flipped his sticks, keeping time before leaning into his microphone to join Brian on singing.

 _"She's a killer QUEEN gunpowder, gelatin, dynamite with a laserbeam, guaranteed to blow your mind, anytime -"_

Brian hears the perfect guitar note in his head to accentuate that bit, just before Roger screeches _"ANYTIME!!!"_ again.

John has a good bass beat that will work with Brian's guitar if he is able to get his fingers to work - 

_"...avoid complications, she never kept the same address. In conversation, she spoke just like a Baroness! Met a man from China, went down to Geisha Minah and incidentally if you're that way incliiiined"_

Brian works on _'oohs'_ of background with Roger as the drummer vaults over his set to come up to Brian's microphone and sing into it with him, clasping the guitarist's wrist with a nod. 

They get through the first version of that particular piece, only the first as Freddie will certainly listen to it and find something else for them to do, something to add in (along with Bri's guitar line, of course). But at the look on his face currently, they continue going, John gets a trifle cheeky with a song he wrote called 'Misfire' and then they're all listening to the tracks. Roy rewinds and stops on Brian's guitar, again and again.

At the last he leans back and says "... I'm not wanting to take the mick out of you, Brian, but your work on this is -" he stops, and Brian fills in the pause with words from his head. It's absolutely terrible, shoddy work. "It isn't your best," Roy says. Brian nods, looks down as he bites his lip, and the others jump to his defense.

"Maybe it's just today, getting back into the swing of things can be hard, y'know?"

"And we're going round to another studio tomorrow, sound will be different there."

"You're going to get this, aren't you, Bri?" 

He looks at them, those encouraging faces, the way the boys have already leapt to downplay how poor he was playing, with Sheffield looking in from the other side of the glass to boot as he talks to their accountant. Miami had come in to give a write-up of the funds they've got, and what they had lost, probably, due to cancelling the remainder of their last tour. If their manager thinks the current sound is not right, Brian is certain he will be out faster than it takes Roger to light a cigarette or for Freddie to call someone 'darling'. His heart thumps heavily as he looks from the lads to Roy, whose face is impassive. He gets like that, is almost as reticent as Miami at times. Yet he's bombastic and loud as well, when something is good. That is what tears at Brian now; if he's silent, it means Brian's sound is exactly as shite as he believes it to be. 

But the others believe in him, whether he deserves it or not. Brian makes a promise to himself. "Yes," he says aloud. "I'm going to get it. I'm here to work." And he's going to go right back to their place and mock up something for tomorrow. He smiles and says nothing else, as if he were to speak any more his voice would be full of cracks, he is sure. He just needs a bit of rest and something to eat, and he'll be right as rain.

Brian works desperately to be positive as Roger slaps him on the arm with a grin and Freddie beams as John nods to him. "We have faith in you, my darling," their lead singer says, and with that Roy nods and tells them what time to be in studio tomorrow morning - can't be late again, he warns, Sheffield won't stand for more money lost. Roger opens his mouth to speak hotly but with a gentle grasp on his arm Bri pulls him away. 

"I understand," he nods smartly at their producer. He doesn't plan for sleep to come tonight anyhow, but does not see the necessity of divulging that. He can use the extra time to work. "We will be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bri is trying so hard, he's not taking good care though! Look after him, boys!
> 
> Ugh, Sheffield is after the money...
> 
> Incidentally, I always thought that Freddie sang _"met a man from China, went down to Asia Minor"_ but apparently I was wrong... Although checking song lyrics via Google isn't the MOST reliable way to do so, I'm sure
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Roger and Freddie have a chat as Brian plans to be up until all hours.
> 
> Oblique references to past abuse, what Freddie dealt with at boarding school, and Freddie currently struggling with himself

On the way to the place they'll need to be, which is across the city as they're headed to Wessex Studios tomorrow, the band stops at the grocery for food they can eat right from package or make with minimal effort. Their hotel won't have a three-star kitchen in it, surely, but as Roger cocks a brow Freddie grabs a couple bottles of alcohol because "with enough of this everything tastes excellent, dears!" 

John had made plans to go out with Veronica tonight but still helps purchase food and drink before he disappears, murmuring "feel better, Brian," and quietly promising to be back by the morning. Which no one disputes or takes the mick about, as they know their Deaks is steady on. Brian simply wonders how John can tell he isn't feeling his best, and then shakes his head at himself. Of course it's because the bassist is so incredibly observant, he watches everything.

Freddie and Roger ply Brian with as much food as he is able to eat, Roger watching closely as Brian had confessed to feeling nauseated earlier. The drummer suspects nerves from his mate's dreaming, and also reminds Bri that "You've just had a ton of blood work and dealt with a serious infection, mate. Your body is still working itself back to normal. Whatever normal is for you," Roger laughs as Brian shoves at him. "Seriously, though, you need to breathe, mate. Give your body a chance to rejuvenate." With a wink "Meanwhile I'm going to drown my liver in alcohol, cheers!" Squeezing Brian's arm and lowering his voice, "we'll be right next door, Fred and I, if you need us, yeah? Try to get a LITTLE sleep tonight, Brian." Roger's gaze is warm and tender in the way it gets sometimes when no one else is around to point out the lack of cheeky verve as is typical of him. It makes Brian long to give his friend a hug, and so he does it before he can stop himself. 

Roger tucks his face against Brian's body and presses himself into his friend's side, cinching his arms tight around Brian's back. He has composed his face when he looks back up and slaps Bri's arse teasingly before Freddie kisses Brian's cheek and pushes him lightly into his room. They had carried all their shopping sacks in and settled themselves, Freddie saying they ought to tuck Brian in and Roger cheekily asking if he wants to hear a lullaby, but the gentle teasing as indicated by Rog's elaborate wink afterwards makes Brian smile, and he promises to let them know if he does need anything. "Enjoy your vodka until then," the guitarist says, and Roger waggles his eyebrows at Freddie after Brian retreats into his bedroom.

"You heard him, let's get on with it then!"

"We do have to be able to record tomorrow, Liz my darling...,"

"Ahh come off it Freddie, we'll be fine!"

***

They start out fine.

Roger pours them both two fingers of vodka, and Freddie asks "what should we drink to, darling?"

"...Brian," Roger's response is instant. "To Brian figuring out his shite." He clinks his glass with Freddie's and knocks its contents back, throat pulling deeply as he pours more drink.

Freddie adds "to sweet Bri's health," quietly, and then "to John, and you, and me"

"Fuck yeah," Roger pours them three fingers now. "To Queen."

"To Queen."

They continue drinking and toasting, until Rog has gotten a jigger for each of them and is stretching out across the soft carpet with his head in Freddie's lap. 

They've gone from talking shop to wondering how John's date went, or if it's still going - "like as not 's still goin', Johnny said ee'd be back b' morning, y'know what that means," Roger slurs a little, tongue wetting his lips and flickering slowly - not even joking now, just part of his manner. He stretches himself and folds one bare arm under his hair, running his fingers across Freddie's leg before doing so, which causes the singer's body to jerk involuntarily. 

"Rog," he begins, feeling the warmth against him, the comfortable way Roger is touching him, play of light shining in his eyes and warming his round cheeks and bare chest, the pertness of his nipples which are nearly the same lovely colour of his lips... Freddie clears his throat and sucks more vodka down, trying desperately not to look too hard into those sweet eyes gazing up out of his lap. Trying not to think of the past and what it meant to him, what happened; and what is going on now, his distance from Mary growing as they'd been on tour, and continuing. His grip tightens on his glass as he drains it of alcohol, the burning in his throat better than the burn of his eyes, the cold feeling of wetness which now sluices down his cheeks. Oh, no.

Suddenly Roger moves, the warmth of his body is gone and Freddie feels bereft as he clenches his eyes shut with a single wracking sob, sucking at his teeth and dropping his head. But then strong arms are around him and his hair is being pushed back and stroked. Soft skin presses against his face and Roger murmurs, voice as sweet as the scent of him, mingling with slight smokiness and the remnants of sweat clinging from the closeness in studio. And a scent on his breath - how is that possible? Vodka hasn't much smell - tone almost a purr in its gentleness "Ah, Freddie," the drummer practically pulls Freddie into his lap, easy and without hesitation as he rocks his dear friend back and forth. "Woss goin' on wi' you?"

Freddie trembles. If anyone else had asked, he would have sniffled and sucked back emotions and smiled, shut down the feelings and closed himself enough to keep going. To ensure no one worries about him. To protect dear John, to keep sweet Brian from spiralling down regretting what has happened to Fred in his life that he couldn't help with, never mind the fact he didn't KNOW Freddie for the course of most of it... Freddie breathes, hotly, into Roger's bare shoulder, unintentionally pressing his mouth to it (Roger is the person out of all of them who, at the first opportunity, removes his shirt "to break free", he says). Rog doesn't even flinch at the touch of Freddie's lips, however; does not move. He has never shied away from Freddie, never seemed scandalised or uncertain about any of the actions of his friend. Not that the other two boys act in any way purposefully, it is just...he knows why he hasn't shut himself down around his Roger yet.

And he does not want to. 

Withdrawing a trifle and moving his face up to lean his forehead against the drummer's, Freddie feels Roger's body shift, he thinks away, and his muscles involuntarily clench; yet Roger has only moved his hand to run up and down Freddie's side as he blinks and says softly, gravelly, eyes breadths from Freddie's own "You're worrying about Brian, yeah?"

Freddie blinks. Brian. Of course Roger is so worried about him, and Freddie should be as well, he _is_ , but - "Yes, I - well of course I am, darling, but we can't help him if he won't let us." Roger shifts and grunts, but despite the defiant flash in his blue eyes the singer can tell he agrees. "I...was also thinking about Deacy, and Ronnie. And Mary, and how I -" _cannot talk to her about everything. I always thought I could, but I'm afraid to about this. About what happened to me, what I am, and..._

"Fred." Roger's voice remains quiet, for him. He continues rubbing Freddie's back. "You're great. 'n what you are is a genius." 

Shite. Freddie had spoken aloud. He could blame the drink, but really as he shakes his head a bit and licks his lips, pursing them after, he wants Roger to know. He wants to tell him. It weighs, with the looks he receives sometimes from people. People such as their manager... He shakes that off, does not want to think about Sheffield right now because they really do not need irate Roger Taylor stomping into the Trident offices on the morrow to pound the piss out of the man.

At least, not on Freddie's account.

He tries now valiantly to chuckle. "...I suppose it's because I'm worried about Brimi, but also, it's. I've - things have been ... difficult with Mary lately."

"Oh?" Roger cocks his head. "I'm sorry, Fred. Can't really..." He waves vaguely, "say anything t' help ya there mate, long relationships aren't really m' forte."

"You don't say," Freddie retorts dryly, and Roger after a moment roars with laughter, tipping back due to his mirth and likely to drunkenness and tugging Freddie with him as he collapses to the floor in a gale of giggles.

"Oh, m' god - that was almost as good as Deacy, Fred, well done," Roger gasps, taking up the decanter of vodka and slopping some more into Freddie's tumbler. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Freddie can't help but chuckle a little too, Roger is the sort of person who can wring laughter out of anybody, no matter who they are or how they feel. It is one of the more wonderful things about him, and something that Freddie appreciates. He gulps the drink and Roger nudges him.

"So, you 'n Mary. Wossa matter, then?"

Freddie attempts to draw himself upright, a lost cause as Roger tugs him back to cuddle, as having tipped back onto the floor he stays there, chest rising and falling gentle as Fred falls back to rest his cheek on Rog's torso. "What do you mean, matter?" Fred tries, and Roger sighs and pushes his fingers through the singer's long black hair, almost absently. It makes Freddie ache, the closeness, and how much he loves it, how much he could melt into Roger's arms and beg for things... But no, that would be wrong, it would be too much. 

Shutting his eyes and ducking his face, Freddie gulps and continues far softer "the matter is... I cannot give her what she wants. I'm not - I'm not the man she wants, she needs me to be. But _she_ still thinks so, she's been trying to convince me that...," Freddie stops and starts again after taking a shuddering breath "But I know, have done since - since I was in boarding school. I'm," _the arch pouf, always have been._ "I've just, I tried, Roger -" the blond man's soft body tenses under Freddie and he begins to move, sure that Roger has understood something without Fred finishing, that he is going to leave, or worse, push Freddie away.

Yet Roger shifts his head and tugs Freddie on top of his body, holding even more tightly. His breath ghosts over Freddie's face and ears. "Fred, you've never talked about - I mean, I know your school was shite. You know I'll listen to anything you want to tell me about it, yeah? I'm here for you. An' I know... I mean, I don' know 'zactly what you're saying, 'bout yourself not being what Mary wants. But - fuck it, you don' hafta change anything about yourself, Fred. You're brilliant." He has grasped Freddie's upper arms and pulls his body up to look into his eyes, lifting one hand to cup Fred's cheek and swipe his thumb across. His movements are clumsy with drink, his words are slurring yet his eyes shine with truth and sincere affection.

Freddie chokes and cannot prevent his eyes from filling with tears. His lips tremble over his teeth and he sucks in air with a sob. "Oh, Roger. Thank you," he whispers. Wraps his arms around his drummer's neck and clutches close.

Roger bows his head into Freddie's neck and holds on. He feels Freddie's shudders and even in the fuzzy state of drunkenness, he is going to help, to take care of his friend. To let Freddie know that Roger is here for him, and will always be. "'Course, Fred. I love you, y'know that. You're gonna be alright." 

As they lie entwined together, Roger hears the sound of a guitar through the wall, and Freddie stills, listening as well.

"Listen, listen, Freddie d'you hear that?" Roger whispers excitedly, prodding him.

Freddie nods into Roger's neck, smiling at his eager, suddenly childlike manner. It's adorable. "Yes, darling, I do."

"Know what that means," Roger beams, pulling back to look into Freddie's face "- Brian's gonna be okay too." He presses an exuberant smacking kiss to the singer's cheek. Freddie feels as though his heart could burst with affection for Roger, he is so full of appreciation and awe at Roger's sunny outlook, his optimistic fire. It allows Freddie to hope, and to feel optimistic as well.

"We all will."

_We've got to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Roger are wonderful together and such dear friends. I have learned that Roger is the person to whom Freddie divulged the most about his past and the struggles he faced in boarding school. I don't like to talk directly about them because they make me feel sick with sorrow and fury for that poor sweet boy so far from home, dealing with bullying and with people taking advantage of him. 
> 
> Freddie is so incredibly strong, in my opinion - in the sense he was resilient; he chose to love rather than hate, to be kind, to give so much of himself to other people and to the world at large with his talent and who he was as a person and as a musician, and I feel incredibly lucky to learn and to write about him.
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about this pair that I can't currently put into words, just, I love the way they are together so incredibly much and I hope you like how I wrote them :)
> 
> This chapter kind of exploded away from me (in the best way - I didn't even intend to include Freddie's POV in this story!) But Brian will get some moments next chapter, I promise
> 
> Comments appreciated <3
> 
> EDIT: I've now begun a sort of addendum to this chapter about Freddie and Roger. It's a separate work entitled "Somebody to Love"


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian feels ill and makes a phone call
> 
> Descriptions of pain and past medical issues/medical scare below

Brian leans against the door he'd just closed after hearing Freddie and Roger, loud and laughing, enter the room next door and sighs. He slings his dear Red Special off his shoulder and places her carefully into the seat he finds beside a table near the door, and then with jerky strides crosses the room to the heating unit and fiddles with the metal knobs atop. His fingers are ice-cold, as is the rest of him. He's always been more cold-natured, he supposes, but after the hospital he has noted that at times it's so hard to actually get and stay warm, and if he is too cold for too long it starts his arm to aching. And that occuring, coupled with his abysmal playing today in the studio, would be an utter disaster.

Not that it isn't already terrible how many tapes he'd had to re-use, or forced the others to re-use, rather; mere fact that they'd needed to get on to another song because his guitar wasn't right is enough to pierce Brian's guts with shame. He folds in on himself even tighter at the remembrance of Roy indicating that something was wrong, that Brian's playing was not up to its usual standard. He feels sick at that, at the surety from the others that he'd be all right, he can work through it; because Brian honestly is not sure...

It takes far more time than it should for him to realise something is physically wrong at present - he is not feeling physical pain solely as a result of, the manifestation from a memory. Even _his_ reactions are not typically so intensely visceral. Brian feels as if his insides are being pounded and squeezed. He feels a powerful urge to vomit but is in so much agony that he barely musters a whimper. 

He'd sat upon the bed and is now curled up in the fetal position, trying to breathe with knees to chest, which is rather ridiculous, he realises, but he just...he _hurts_. Flashes to the possibility of calling to Roger or Freddie, they had told him to let them know if he needs anything, but a voice inside him says not to bother them; they're drinking, relaxing, having fun. John's out too, and he hasn't the heart to call his girlfriend and outline his woes to her over the phone. Never mind his parents, this would unnecessarily worry them, or at least his mum, if she'd answer the phone. But Brian has managed to stretch one arm and pull the rotary on the bedside table closer, and there's a number he knows quite well, for some reason - better than one might think, really - but nevertheless he knows it, and keys the digits in, tracing the rotary round and hearing the sliding clicks before the receiver begins ringing. 

Bri leans the handset against his ear and hair, so he hasn't got to hold on, clenching one arm around his abdomen instead, the pressure helping the pain, a bit. Only a bit. He gasps and grinds his long teeth into his lower lip as a familiar voice emanates from the other end of the phone line.

"Trident offices, this is Jim Beach speaking."

"Jim," Brian gasps, swallows, tries desperately to manufacture a semblance of normalcy. "Hullo, I'm sorry to be calling so late. This is -"

"Brian," the band's accountant says instantly, to Brian's surprise. He wasn't aware the other man would know who he was so quickly. He hasn't as recognisable a voice as Roger, or Deacy. Never mind Freddie, whose 'hello, darling!' would instantly receive recognition. But him? He's just... Brian. Yet the voice on the phone is warm and welcoming. "It's alright, I've just finished doing a write-up of your royalties." That makes Brian's head spin, the fact they can now receive such things. There are sounds of shifting papers and the clearing of a throat. "Aren't as many as I'd have thought there would be, but I'll check over again. Really should be getting on home soon, I'm sure. But time flies," he chuckles. Brian understands that sentiment all-too-well. Then the accountant's vocal tone lowers. Grows gentle, though pointed. "How are you doing?"

"I'm -" another wave of stomach pain stops Brian from downplaying his current situation, and he can't stop a groan from exiting his lips. He grasps at a source of comfort, and somehow that ends as the name Freddie had come up with for Jim (as his given name is too common for the accountant of a rock band, according to Fred. It was one of his zany notions that oddly endear people to him rather than irritate them. How many people could so baldly say that someone's name was boring and give them another name that they subsequently accepted without issue? No one else that Brian knows, for certain). "- I'm not great at the moment, Miami," the guitarist whispers. "I'm...in some pain, actually."

Miami's voice is on alert. "How much pain, Brian? Is it your arm?"

"It's coming in waves, and no," Brian gulps. Hating this, he's got to be strong, he has to get through this. It's ridiculous, really, a little stomach twinge. "- it's me stomach. I... I'll be alright, I just - needed to talk to someone." He winces at that admission, at how weak and pathetic he certainly sounds. "I'm so sorry you're having to deal with whining from some temperamental rock star -" 

"Brian," Miami's voice is dry and gentle as ever John's is, which calms the guitarist down. "You are the last person in this band that I would consider to be temperamental. Freddie threw a fit over a pair of slippers, if you'll recall, and we love him still."

Brian expels a breathy bit of laughter. "And we had the maracas incident with Roger..."

"The maracas!" Miami groans, but Brian hears a smile in his voice. He feels warm and the pain is slowly lessening as they speak. "Also there was that bit of difficulty at the Rainbow in March, when -"

"...John had a moment he wanted to knock some lighting and sound people's heads together," Brian finishes. "I remember."

"And you're all still rock and roll."

There is a beat of silence, then "You're as rocking as any one of us, Miami, to be aware of all of that."

"You give me a great deal of credit, it's because if something happens I'm in charge of paying for it!" They both laugh this time, and Brian finds he is able to extend his legs again, the cramping in his abdomen having lessened considerably. 

"Fair enough." Brian shifts and smiles, letting out a breath he had not known that he was holding. "... I'm feeling better now, Miami, thanks."

"Cheers," the accountant says. "Glad I can be of some help. Is it in knots, your stomach?"

Brian bites his lip, but he knows the other man is not going to blab about his ailment to everyone. "Mm-hm. Rather like it was cramping. But I ate a bite of supper." _More than usual, because I was practically force-fed by Freddie and Roger,_ Brian continues in his head but does not voice aloud. Miami makes a non-committal noise.

"I suggest drinking a bit of water if you can find some," he says. "and Brian?"

"Yes?" 

"If anything gets worse, don't hesitate to call me or someone else. We all want to help you. Don't be a stubborn berk and hold it all in like you tried to do last time." His voice is stern and fatherly, causing Brian to feel a thickening in his throat and tightness behind his eyes. His own father hasn't spoken to him in such a way - or at all - for several years.

Yet last time... 

Last time. When he was so excited to go on their first big tour, to Australia and then back to Britain and America - even if Queen wasn't the headliner band it would be great fun, and he wanted to ensure he'd be healthy for it so he'd gotten vaccinated. When he thought he'd just been tired and sliced his arm up on a metal strut backstage but hadn't noticed it and when he did, cleaned it out with a bit of water and he thinks soap, he wasn't sure, before going straight to sleep; how he'd been feeling sharp spins and twinges in his belly and thought he simply hadn't been stretching enough for carrying his guitar round so much; when Freddie first told him _"you're looking a mite pale, my dear. You need your rest"_ when Roger'd grabbed his face and said - shouted, really - at Freddie and John and anyone who'd listen _"something's wrong, Brian's skin shouldn't look like this, and not his eyes, neither -"_ and then when Brian had been so foggy and unfocused he hadn't even heard the crowds and stumbled, fallen down into the dark after they'd played and before they were supposed to play and oh, no, this mustn't be anything like last time.

"I won't, Miami." Brian clutches the phone in shaking hands, with white bulging knuckles. "I won't let this be like last time, I mean." _I promise._

They trade some pleasantries and thanks and of courses before Brian hangs up with a "Good night, Miami."

"Get some rest, Brian."

Brian swings his legs stiffly out of bed and goes to the toilet, filling a cup with water from the sink. Curling his hand around the glass and carefully carrying it back to his bedside table, Brian picks up his guitar and prepares to play her for a bit, after shucking off his trousers and readying himself for bed. 

Never mind the fact, despite Miami's words, that the guitarist figures he won't get any sleep tonight. His mind continues spinning, remaining hard at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia is an absolute bastard, I say from experience. It's like your brain keeps sending thoughts on an assembly line at you and every time you think you've had the last one and can go to sleep, SURPRISE here comes another
> 
> Miami will do his best to help Brian though, as will they all
> 
> Miami Beach is amazing and I love and respect him so much  
> * The reference to checking over royalties alludes to the fact that Queen's manager was stealing money from them, and as their accountant, Miami began to notice that something was wrong
> 
> *The information I include about "last time" is what I know about Brian's hepatitis and gangrene. Brian contracted hepatitis from a dirty vaccination needle in January of 1974 before going on tour in Australia :( and cut his arm backstage closer to March, I believe, poor fellow. I'm sure he tried to wash it well but the infection had already set in, ouch
> 
> Next chapter John gets back and we shall see what happens...
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	10. Chapter 10

Brian's eyes are burning and bleary as he stares down at the guitar in his lap and then shifts his glance to the glass of water beside his bed. Light glances off said glass and directly into his nearer eye, over which his tangled black curls hang and he feels a dull spike of pain manifest itself behind his brow. It has been hours since he'd hung up the phone, yet he still has not managed - hasn't even really tried, to be honest - to go to sleep. _Sorry, Miami._

He blinks and groans, lifting his fingers to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose between them.

Brian doesn't think he'd been at all loud, certainly not as elevated as Roger and Freddie had gotten earlier - or rather, it was solely Roger that he heard through the wall - shouting about bashing someone's brains in and sowing the ground with their bits, as Roger's colourful expressions get even more so as his intoxication increases. He'd lowered his voice after Brian heard Freddie soothing him, though the specifics of the conversation eluded him. Not that he had intentionally been listening; honestly, he'd been trying everything to relax and do as Miami had suggested, get some sleep.

He'd been trying to go over their songs and mock up a chord progression for his solos, as with the boys' playing Brian can clearly hear what he needs to do. He just couldn't get his fingers to do it earlier today, and continues to work his hands across Red's strings meticulously, strumming now both deliberate and slow. Got to get this right. His vision blurs as he works, and suddenly his head snaps up as if for a second he had nodded off, but the pain is back behind both of his eyes now and again he groans, likely louder this time.

Which is when Brian thinks he hears a series of knocks upon his door.

***

John had really enjoyed his evening with Veronica - it's a calming feeling to be with her, far different from the frenetic moments that have become part of their lives recently, the four people in the band. Which had been a bit like a student band their first two or so years together; it's only been last year and this that has seen so many changes for them, sending them into studio consistently and actually playing to really really massive crowds. Hundreds and hundreds of people watching and listening to them - John's heart goes mad every time on stage, practically. It's better in the studio, making music and engineering it to work, so to speak.

Lots of layering, of finding beats, the heart of each song. John stays close to Roger and they work so well together, steady and certain - if he's got an idea Roger is the first to hear and approve or nix it, and so very often that golden head shoots up and Roger's bright teeth shine over at him as that high sweet voice calls "Fuckin' a, yes John!" Really, Rog spoils him, John thinks, as he flushes and grins, feeling comfortable flashing the gap of his teeth and wiggling his eyebrows a little back at Rog. Does a two-step that sends him rocking over the wires behind Freddie's microphone.

John focuses on the amplifiers and how each tape sounds. He spends a lot of time standing and listening when not working a line with his bass, and has gotten good at noting when a song needs another tape of overlay to fill spaces. Catches Roy watching him at times, and nods with a smile before focusing on his and Roger's bits.

He focuses on Brian's too, honestly, even as Bri whips out such long and complicated solos that make the bassist's head spin, he also provides rhythm, which John can recognise and register where it's got a place as he himself had played guitar before learning bass. He sees Brian get focused and frustrated, sees that perfectionism flare that makes him redo a perfectly-adequate track more times than anyone else. John has gotten to the point that he can tell when Bri is about to request a new tape, or to redo one. 

John also registers the distortions and echoes sure to bother Bri, as they irk him too, and thus has witnessed a sharp difference in the guitarist's work today. It's small, but noticeable; he had asked for a new tape when his work wasn't perfect, yet Brian hadn't said a thing about another portion of the track where Freddie's voice had an echo to it. John had gone over and pointed it out, quietly, and spent the day alternatively following to pick up on issues and growing ever more concerned on Brian's behalf. On Freddie's and Roger's, too, because as recording went on, the singer especially grew more and more agitated.

Thus he had been exhausted before his night out with Ronnie, yet being with her rejuvenated him in more ways than one. He even gets an idea for a new song, and finds himself almost bouncing along the hallway to his room, still energised even as it is very late at night - or rather, early in the morning. So he clearly hears and goes on alert at the sound of groaning emanating from Brian's room.

If the voice he heard had belonged to Roger, he might not have gone in; Rog has very little shame when caught in what might be considered compromising positions, and though typically John laughs over them with his friend, he has gotten the ability to discern the difference between a groan of pleasure and one of pain. Besides the fact that Roger is far louder than Brian in most situations outside of studio.

So it takes a split second decision for the bassist to veer over to Brian's door and knock.

***

Brian staggers round his bed to reach the door and his long fingers fumble to open it. Eyes are mostly shut as he eventually manages, one hand pressing to his forehead with hair hanging down over his squinting eyes frizzily. Most of his lanky limbs are visible as he is wearing a white t-shirt and pants alone. His feet curl on the floor as he leans heavily in the doorway, and John's heart goes out to him. Something is wrong.

"...John," Brian's voice is soft as he tries to blink and open his eyes. 

"Brian," John returns. "Doing alright?" He asks, even though, no matter what the truth is, he expects a particular answer. Brian is incredibly stubborn.

All the guitarist does however is wave vaguely. "Ah, well. Can't sleep," his voice is almost a mumble. "And my head..." He winces a little as he pokes at his strong brow with two fingers, but adds "Really, though, don't worry yourself. I'll be okay." He wobbles, either from exhaustion, or pain, or both.

"Yes, I'm sure." John's dry tone precedes him ducking underneath Brian's shoulder and wrapping Bri's arm around him as he puts his free hand on the opposite side of the guitarist's waist. "Once I get you in your bed with flannel on. C'mon." 

He helps Brian back across the threshold of his room and takes the taller man to bed, pulling the blankets down with a snap. Brian's eyes try to focus. "My guitar...," He says.

"- will be put to bed after you," John tells him, lifting Brian's legs and tucking blankets around him before gently pressing one bony shoulder. "Lie down, Bri. That's it." He reaches across and turns off the lamp beside the bed, able still to see in the hall light that illuminates the floor through the still open doorway. John carefully picks his way around the bed and scoops up Brian's guitar, laying her as carefully as he can back into the case. The snapping shut of latches makes Brian move, and "See? Put her up for you, she's safe and sound til we're back in studio," John whispers. He goes into the loo and runs cold water over a towel that he wrings out before bringing it, folded lengthwise, and draping it across Brian's forehead and over his eyes, tucking the ends as best he can behind the other man's ears. "There, that should help your head, I think. Too cold?" Brian's head moves a little back and forth in a negatory shake, and one hand moves to hold and keep the saturated cloth in place as it starts to slip due to his movement. 

"John," Brian says.

"Yes, Brian?"

"Thank you," he breathes, the sparkling of his eyes diminishing as they flutter closed. "Dunno if I can sleep, but -"

"You're going to try," John responds softly, fingers pushing back the thick darkness of Brian's hair. He feels a little thrill of warmth within himself that Brian is allowing this. He's usually so focused on taking care of everyone else... The warmth turns to concern, because the fact he is letting John assist so easily, without complaint (or what passes for Brian complaining, which is often protestations that he's absolutely fine) must mean he truly does feel terrible. Anxiety crawls in John's stomach and he strives to push it down. Mustn't be idle. But a sliver of the feeling slips into his next words anyhow "Because I'm staying here with you. Erm, I mean I will, if that's -"

"Yes," Brian's hand has reached out and takes hold of John's wrist. He nods this time, squeezing John's skin gently, trying to convey his honest acquiescence and appreciation even through the headache. "If you, if you'd like to." He sounds so small and unsure, as if he expects John to disavow his previous statement and leave, but John gulps, brown hair waving with his own nod.

"Okay," he sits at the edge of the bed next to Brian and shoves softly at his side. "Bri, I needja to scoot over, y'know."

"Oh, 'course." Brian shuffles his body, John scooting to rest beside him, chest to Brian's side and part of his back as he shifts partly onto one side. He lays his arm carefully on Brian's waist, ready to move at the first sign that the other man is uncomfortable, but Brian laces his fingers with John's and pulls him closer, using his other hand to cover the bassist with blankets as best he can. "G'night, John."

Patting his thin back affectionately, "Sweet dreams, Bri," John replies. "Hope you'll feel better tomorrow."

Brian closes his eyes and tries to relax, the cool feeling of cloth against his skin soothing him as much as the warmth and steadiness of John's body does. He already feels as though he is sliding into sleep as he responds

"Thanks, Deacy. I hope so too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is a sweetheart. He seems incredibly observant to me, as well as a perfectionist in his own right, in some ways. He's also dry and cheeky from what I can tell. Love his sense of humour :)
> 
> *Flannel in this case is a wet washcloth for Brian's head
> 
> Brian appreciates John's quiet steadiness and care, I'm sure. They've got a sweet understated friendship between them
> 
> Now I've got John's POV. Guess Rog needs to be next, hey? 
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References to frightening dreamscapes and briefly to vomit and past issues

Brian wakes with a chill, and is for an instant terrified that he's got a fever, somehow; that he's in hospital again, or that he is still dreaming, locked in the tug of freezing currents, riptides in his mind, winding dark waves that drag him under until his lungs, his chest, his entire body is burning from a lack of oxygen until he's thrashing, soaked with sweat and strangling - 

But then he hears a rustling and the feeling of gentle but strong fingertips. The slight roughness of terrycloth against his forehead brings him to the present moment in his hotel room, pulls him to the surface, into wakefulness. He can open his eyes without pain, his stomach feels steadier, and he rolls to see a crinkled pair of eyes, like the ocean and the clouds, but long away softer. Grey green of the sea without a storm. There is no riptide here. "Morning, John," he says, voice creaking, and sits upright to feel the cool smoothness of a glass pressed into his hand with care.

"Hullo Brian, sleep well?"

Brian blinks. "Yes, I did, actually."

John's expressive face crinkles and he huffs out a breath of seeming relief, nodding to the guitarist. "I'm glad." He opens his mouth again, a subsequent question in his eyes, but he doesn't want to cause Bri any anxiety or worries this early in the morning, and so he says "Well, erm. I'll leave you to shower and all, I should probably go and find a... new set of clothes." 

Brian smiles as the bassist rubs the back of his head, his long brown hair tangled and his shirt and slacks of last night wrinkled; seemingly the only article of clothing he had removed to sleep was his shoes. Brian recalls that John had been on a date with Veronica, and his pale skin tints bright red in embarrassment, ashamed that John certainly had come in, likely exhausted, and assisted Brian instead of going to his own room to sleep. 

They had all made the pact to get rooms enough for all of them to use no matter how many end up in the hotel, as there had been an incredibly loud evening on tour wherein Roger hadn't come back with the others and no one had purchased him a room, thus earning all three of them a series of irate telephone calls at an unseemly hour of the morning, by Roger and then even more unpleasantness from their manager as in his mulish and mostly-asleep state, going full prima donna rockstar, Roger had put himself in the so-called "presidential suite" and gave the folks at the front desk the number of his band's management. 

Point now being that someone has a key to John's room on the present occasion, and as it isn't Brian, he will have to search out Roger and Freddie.

Brian nods, his eyes crinkled in a thankful smile of his own. "Alright. Freddie and Rog were next door last I saw them," he says, scooping up some clean clothes and heading with them towards his bathroom. Lifts the washcloth that had still been on his forehead, obviously recooled by Deacy because it's still chilled and damp. "See you in a bit, John. And," he is going to thank his bandmate yet again, but John preemptively stops him with a nod and a grin.

"I'll see you in a few," he says, exiting the guitarist's room and thumping on the door beside it with the side of his left fist. 

There is a second of silence before some shuffling as John thumps on the door again and an irate familiar voice very loudly snarls "It's too fucking early for room cleaning, what in the _BLOODY_ HELL?!"

***

Roger has no idea when he got to sleep.

He'd stayed awake with Fred, head lightly buzzing as Freddie told him things that made him feel sicker than any amount of alcohol consumption could, and Fred had to talk him off of going to beat the shite out of multiple people, never mind the fact that he'd no idea where to find them. He was simply ready to go for it, no one should ever EVER be able to treat his best friend the way Freddie at last admitted to being treated, as if it was his fault, like he was low and scummy because of the shite people forced him into.

So coming into consciousness with their conversation of the night crashing into his memory along with a pounding on the door like to split his skull with sound, Roger Meddows Taylor is not in the best mood. Falls off the bed with a roar, in fact, and freezes to hear Freddie expel a whimper and roll over, hands stretching out as if still seeking his drummer's presence. Roger's heart aches and he yanks open the door with a snarl.

To see John, of course it's John, the bassist jerking backwards with raised eyebrows and a dry "'Lo, Rog. I was gonna ask how you're doing this morning but think I've figured it out. Erm, Brian's better, if you want to know." He peers over Roger's shoulder to see Freddie curled up, face buried in bedclothes, seemingly still asleep. "...I just wondered if you'd got a key," rubbing the back of his head and flickering his eyes as though apologetic, "For my room here, y'know."

"Oh!" Roger feels like an arsehole. He reaches out and squeezes John's arm. Of course Deaks would've gone first to check on Brian even though he'd probably just come in from a nearly all-night date, attaboy Johnny - but the drummer bounds over because of course they'd got a key for him, and he drops it into John's palm with a swoop forward to plant a kiss on the bassist's cheek for good measure. "There y' are. I'll hopefully have gotten Freddie up by the time you're out of the shower, gonna be a great day," he groans and lifts both hands to grip the sides of his head, as the movement he had made to buss John's cheek causes him now to feel like he's going to throw up. 

His eyes bulge and cheeks in fact balloon as John says "I'll leave you to it, then," not without sympathy. "Try drinking water, Roger!" He calls as the drummer whips round and charges noisily into the loo. 

Sound of the reply is garbled up with groaning, and John makes a mental note to tell someone that they'll need a good bit of hydration today. This thought is exemplified by Freddie's utter lack of movement in response to all the noise. Ordinarily he would be sweet and quiet, pouty over being woken up and very probably starting to whine about it, but the singer would, in fact, be awake due to the previous sounds of shouting and current retching from Roger's vicinity. He must have had a wild night. John impulsively moves over to the bed and pushes his fingers through Freddie's fluff of hair before withdrawing to prepare himself for their day in studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for another day of recording! What's going to happen, who knows?
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	12. Chapter 12

Seems as if things are going better; at least for a little while.

The band gets to the studio, and Brian is okay on rhythm work, and he's working hard, as ever; but as the days go on in Wessex and at Rockfield he is slouching more and his sound is muddying; his features are getting pinched with unhappiness, and from what the others who know him so well can figure, pain. 

Roger is constantly checking on his arm and looking into his face for jaundice; he recalls the terrible waxen look of Brian's features, the colour of the whites of his eyes, how it had changed. Roger is always physical, but even more than usual he grabs onto Brian's arm, checking the temperature of his skin, noting the sheen of sweat upon it, leaning into his side. Brings Bri water as often as he does Freddie, now.

But it isn't enough.

It's late in the evening back at Trident Studios this time and their manager has arrived to listen to some recording. Sheffield is standing there with feet tapping as he listens to Miami talk. Their accountant came round as well when he heard Sheffield was dropping by - he is around often enough to listen to them working, anyway, but there is a particular set to his features this time as he talks to the man. And Sheffield clearly isn't listening, waving off both Jim Beach and the music itself. Leans in and makes Roy turn on the mic.

"What is that?" His voice crashes into the recording room, loud and snide. "It's utterly abysmal. We can't make money on that sound, in particular with the guitar sounding like a screaming child. Brian -"

Roger's jaw clenches, John's eyes widen and Freddie sucks in air, his hands start to tremble as Brian starts shaking, his lips trembling, hair falling into his face as he tries to respond. "Yes sir, no sir," that sweet tone of voice is choking as he lifts hazel-brown eyes to try and compose himself, to not sound as if he's pleading. "I can, I'll get it, ah!" He presses his hand to his side then, long teeth pressing into the flesh of his lower lip and drawing blood. Roger doesn't see that, but he does see the way that Brian's body jackknifes and he's ready to vault over his drumset, work be damned

"- Stay where you are, Taylor," snaps their manager. "...You know rhythm guitar, don't you?" And he's looking at John, Deacy who has as always been shrinking almost into the wall as others talk around him. 

He steps forward, though, mostly from surprise that anyone would remember. "Yes, I, well I started as a guitarist before learning bass."

"Good." Sheffield bares his teeth and looks at Miami, whose face changes as he appears to register what the other man is going to say before he does so.

"Why don't you play all of the guitar parts, then?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Sheffield demanded that John perform the guitar bits on this album because Brian couldn't do it...
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian is spiralling
> 
> Severe self-worth issues at the outset of this chapter

_Play all the guitar parts._ Brian's ears are roaring. _You're useless, Brian; it's all out, now, but we've known for a while. Nobody needs you, not the way you need this, need them. You're pathetic. See, son? This was a mistake._ Last phrase is his father's, and Brian's stomach cramps, heaves and rolls. He had already felt a jolt of nausea before hearing Sheffield initially speak, but that - Brian takes in a slow breath through his nose, trying not to lose his composure. To show the way he feels. His eyes are prickling and his mouth pools with saliva but he compresses his lips, clamping them tightly shut. He isn't going to lose it, he's not going to beg, or cry....

Brian thinks he hears Freddie's sweet voice saying his name, and Roger snarling, but all he sees is John, pale dear quiet Deacy, getting noticed, getting his due - and he cannot bear to hear whatever the bassist's response is going to be. They need the money, of course, if nothing else; they've got to keep going and since they couldn't finish their last tour because of him, this album needs to amaze. And it's not, not at present. He's not doing enough, not nearly -

"Here, then," he croaks, pulling Red's strap off his shoulders, the edge catching in his hair. That pain combines with a shake of his shoulders and a retching.sound rolls up from within him. Brian.claps his long fingers against his lips as a muffle and runs out of the room, slamming through the back door with his shoulder and free hand fumbling on the handle. At last he's free and clear, though neither of those things, at all - and stumbles towards the nearest place he can be alone. Possibly the loo, perhaps an empty office, or outside....

His ears continue roaring even after the door slams shut. 

"What've you done? You absolute fucking - !" Roger roars out, wanting to lunge through the glass at Sheffield, the pompous bastard. Shake him or strangle him, more like - he'd watched Brian's body slump, seen the jerking of his shoulders and the so-white-it-was-almost-green tint to his face as he booked it out of there, guitar not even on his shoulder, for once; that tears at Rog as much as all the rest of this, and he wants nothing more than to pound his fists into Sheffield's smug face, pound him to a pulp and take the pieces to show Brian. Except that Bri is the most anti-arse beating of a person that Roger has ever known. And thus he would be horrified that his friend had beaten someone up for him, but

"No," Roger hears a negation spoken stolidly, soft but firm. He whips his head around to see Johnny, his Deaks staring straight through the glass at Sheffield. John, who doesn't do well with confrontation or sustained direct eye contact during such a situation, is staring at their manager, shaking his head. "No, I'm not doing that. We need Brian for the guitar bits. Besides, I'm not one for a solo, y'know. Wouldn't even begin to be able to write one, um." He smiles ever-so-slightly, gapped teeth flashing at the two of them, and Freddie goes and wraps an arm around him as Roger feels a trembling sensation within the core of his being. A warmth, because it isn't only him with hackles rising, of course not. They all are going to do whatever they can to help Brian.

"Darling," Freddie whispers into John's long soft hair, arms entwining round the bassist's back, and then he lifts his chin and turns his face to the fellows through the glass. "You heard him, and unless you don't want a lead singer, I suggest you listen, dears."

"Or a drummer," Roger's voice is tight as he swipes a sweaty arm across his face, actually lunging forward from behind his kit now. "We all can record ourselves, and leave tape for Brian when he's ready." _When he's well again. He's going to get there, you wankers, you'll fucking see. Back to being beautiful Brian, going hard as anything._

All three of them stand clumped together, as one, chests heaving as they wait for a response. 

Sheffield gets all high and mighty, lifting his nose, and Roy murmurs to him and then to Miami, who gives a surreptitious wink and a thumbs-up to the band. "We can do that," Roy says, and Roger feels himself begin to breathe again. John takes ahold of his hand, and Freddie wraps his arms around the pair of them. 

"If saving tape doesn't work, it's on your heads," this cryptic skiving sentiment from Sheffield makes Roger's teeth grind together as he makes a movement, but stops it short as Freddie murmurs low enough not to be overheard. They've gotten adept already at avoiding microphones.

"Ignore him, dearest, we will do this thing. Right now we've got to find our Brimi."

And that makes Roger's heartbeat thump, because Brian's never been alone in this place, has never run from studio before. Especially after something like this, because it's never happened. He hasn't left his Red Special anywhere he is not since they met. Shite. 

Where is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, poor Bri
> 
> *John told the studio that he wasn't going to play guitar and they did work up all their bits first, leaving space for Brian to add his guitar in. They all love each other so much, who says Bri and John didn't have as strong a friendship as the others? Don't mind me I'm ranting
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of vomiting below (not too graphic I don't think, but sorry for this anyway)

Where Brian is, is on his hands and knees. 

He'd clattered down a hallway, beads of sweat popping up on his forehead and slickening his hands, and his palms are clammy as his stomach heaves and he doesn't know what else to do but manages to slam out of a side door, or rather the back, into an alleyway behind Trident and he's bowing his heavy curled head forward and being sick -

There's not much in his stomach really, but the acidic taste and feeling of bile burns in his nose and throat. He still feels cramps, feels _pain_ as he's hanging in the air out the door, hoping no one's round to see him but also imagining that if they did, no one would bother coming over. No one wants to be around a rock star not even done enough yet to be a has-been but a has-been nonetheless. He imagines hands, other hands hefting his dear old lady up and settling to play her, and he groans, heaving violently again, knees buckling.

"Bloody hell, if I wasn't already sure I couldn't fucking be a doctor...," An oh-so familiar, sweet high tone that sounds rough and tender, exasperated and fond at the same time, precedes warm stout hands with callous-roughened fingers pulling his hair back and touching his face. "Go on, Brian, get it all up, mate."

Brian moans again, eyes blurring, mostly shut as he turns his head, catching sight of bright blue eyes and soft round cheeks and gleaming golden hair. Wants to wipe his face yet feels his hands shaking too violently to do so. He feels horrified, and helpless, and ashamed "Oh, Rogie, 'm so sorry -"

"Shut the fuck up, Bri. You're sick, and we're going to help you. Here." There is a soft press of cloth to his face, heavy swipes over his lips and cheeks and chin, and a quieter tone saying something about bringing some water.

"That's a fantastic idea, darling," Freddie, and Brian blinks tears away and wobbles back, feeling Roger's strong warm arm around his waist and seeing Freddie, and John, both in the tiny little hallway he had run through to get out the door, and all that he sees on their faces is concern and love. It makes his stomach lurch again, and he does begin to cry this time, long legs buckling as his hands rise to clutch the cloth - John had handed it to him, he realises - like he'd done for Brian in his hotel room. Seems so long ago, and also only moments; before everything had spiralled out, sending Brian down into this swirling miasma of black, frigid nothingness....

"What, why are you -" Brian's throat clicks, he swallows and hopes not to be sick again, even as he's still aching. "- here? You need to get going on, with guitar work, John -" the act of speaking those words aloud tears at him even more than the acid of bile had done. Brings more tears flooding to his eyes, sluicing down his cheeks. 

Brian shudders and whimpers, and hears Freddie's sweet warm voice croon "Oh Brimi, my darling," and there is a hand pushing through his thick hot sweaty hair as another holds on tightly to his side, and then cool skin touches his burning cheeks and John's green-grey eyes are staring into his. 

"No, I don't." John's voice is soft and steady as he holds on to Brian's cheek. "You're the guitarist, Brian. We need all four of us to sound like Queen." He bites his lower lip briefly. "...We need you, and need you well."

"And that's why once you've had some water we're going out, Brimi dear," Freddie says now. Brian lifts still tearful eyes and gulps, looking into the brightest spark of life onstage and the warmest of gentle souls when off.

"Where are we going, Fred?" His voice trembles, breaking as he sniffs and swipes underneath his nose. He sounds pitiful, but honestly he's got no clue where they could go.

Seems as if his whole body could be knocked aside with how violent is Roger's subsequent snort. The drummer's muscular arm wraps close around Brian's waist and side as his fingers nudge into Brian's bony hip enough to begin the movement to haul him up. "To hospital, of course. We're not waiting till we have to fly your stubborn arse across a fucking ocean this time. You're going to see a doctor, and we're going to get you well. Come on."

As Brian rises, swaying into Roger's side, curls brushing the top of his friend's head as he carefully puts an arm around Rog. "Me guitar...," He eventually utters, and smiles and laughter brighten his bandmates' faces as they move in a supportive knot.

"Now _there_ is the Brian we know and love!" Freddie crows.

"Of course that's what he's worried about," John's eyes crinkle at the edges.

"I'll pack up your bloody guitar and bring her with us, alright mate?" Roger rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch with the relief that Bri still has the same priorities, as ridiculous as they may be. Don't want him to change, no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost think this can end with Brian going to a doctor for being sick (he had an intestinal ulcer, poor fellow) but let me know if you want to read more. It baffles me that I legitimately only planned chapter one, and here I am!
> 
> Comments appreciated <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Somebody to Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25872661) by [1f_this_be_madness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness)




End file.
